


Skulls

by ravenhairedtrickster



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Evil!Bilbo, Implied Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, personality change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-11 13:38:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenhairedtrickster/pseuds/ravenhairedtrickster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It grew like a weed, a treacherous seed that flourished in the dark of Mirkwood. An inkling that turned into something more with each step toward Erebor. In hindsight it was a sickness of the mind, morphing and changing Bilbo until all that was left was a crippled shell of what used to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The result of seeing so much evil!Thorin. A take on evil!Biblo and his rule over Erebor with Bofur at his side and Smaug at his command. 
> 
> Kudos to [Keara](http://kearabaggins.tumblr.com/) for helping develop this verse through many headcanons and late night skype convos.
> 
> This is an _alternate universe_ fic which is defined as the following: **is a type or form of [fic] in which canonical facts of setting or characterization in the universe being explored or written about are deliberately changed.**
> 
> Please take that into consideration when reading.

It grew like a weed, a treacherous seed that flourished in the dark of Mirkwood. An inkling that turned into something more with each step toward Erebor. In hindsight it was a sickness of the mind, morphing and changing Bilbo until all that was left was a crippled shell of what used to be. 

Thorin Oakenshield, rightful king under the mountain, was the first. With an audience gathered into the room of the Kings, the axe fell and with it Thorin's head. When the deed was done and the remaining line of Durin were dragged from the room – their sobs echoing – Bilbo made his way to the block. With a cruel smirk he gave the body a little push. It slumped side ways, falling to stone with a rustle of clothing. Blood continued to pour from the severed neck for some time and when it slowed to a mere trickle Bilbo laughed. 

“He deserves no burial,” the hobbit said quite madly as he spun around to face those gathered. Briefly his fingers slipped into his pocket, fondling something unseen before coming out empty. He pointed accusingly at the corpse as he put distance between it and himself. “He deserves no titles, no recognition, no glory.”

“King under the mountain!” Bilbo shrieked and all but danced further away until he stood near the second of his two most precious possessions. 

His fingers were soft in Bofur's hair, gentle even when they found the sensitive spot behind one of his ears. “You will never betray me,” he whispered to the dwarf. “You will never hurt me.”

And with a yell he summoned Smaug who laughed when he saw the body of his enemy. 

“Pity,” he rumbled, voice deep, the air filling with the scent of fire as he spoke. “I should've liked to kill him myself.” Then the dragon bowed his head and snapped up the corpse with a loud crunch – the ring purred happily in Bilbo's pocket.


	2. Chapter 2

The ring governed the land, Erebor was no more the Dwarves right as it was Smaug's. Bilbo sat on the throne deprived of the Arkenstone wearing fabrics the colour of coal, molten reds and oranges accenting. He looked of Smaug's chest prior to spitting fire, a crown, thorned and menacing sat on the sandy brown of his curls. 

The so called heart of the mountain sat patiently in his lap, glowing it's ivory starlight, it's pit a smattering of colours that gave it an otherworldly appearance. Funny how the mountains most treasured jewel was to be given away, gifted along with a few other tokens of his gratitude. 

Bilbo lounged, passed the time by speaking to the fire wurm in his charge. They spoke of many things. Smaug's tales full of destruction, the ruin of great cities, kingdoms that would've been. Wise in his age the dragon shared riddles, much to the hobbits amusement and when he grew tired of Smaug's smokey breath he waved the winged beast away before stepping from the throne. 

Bofur knelt, subservient at its side, silent and eyes downcast in his unfaltering obedience. He didn't permit the dwarf to wear his hat, nor braid his hair, much preferring it to fall in unhindered waves down his back and around his face. Such beauty the ring could not understand, it sat displeased in his pocket when he gave his dwarf attention. 

Bofur was a soothing presence, a warm breeze that swirled around the jagged ice of his heart, the twisted vines that suffocated his mind. The ring didn't know love, but then again, neither did Bilbo. Still, he craved Bofur with every breath and when finally they were alone he'd bow his head and find soft lips. His tongue would slide into a damp cavern lined with pink gums and pearly teeth; searching with gusto as he tasted pipe weed and cinnamon. 

Contrary to popular belief, Bofur wasn't an unwilling party, it delighted Bilbo that the dwarf responded to him in earnest. Presently big brown eyes merely stared up at him, a mirth he had failed to destroy still lingering within their depths. 

“How do you endure?” The hobbit asked, his fingers twisting in the others hair. “How do you retain what makes you... _you_ without breaking?”

The hand in his hair was meant as a warning, yet Bofur leaned into it as he said, “I don't understand.”

Bilbo sniffed. “How does such light shine in the blackest of black?”

A shrug, soft smile following. “It's not all that dark in here,” Bofur replied, always the optimist. “'Sides love makes some do strange things.”

Bilbo jerked away as if Bofur's words had stung him. Perhaps they had, though the ring sent daggers of unease into his gut, a flood of uncertainty into his mind. Love was a powerful thing, it could command kingdoms – or destroy them. 

“King of the Greenwood approaches,” his dwarf suddenly said and when Bilbo turned he saw the others words to be true. Long robes dragged across the cold stone, each step calculated and smooth. Thranduil seemed to flow like liquid silver, beautiful even in the morbid torchlight of Erebor. 

He left Bofur at the thrones side, climbing onto it. He dared to look into Thranduil's keen eyes as the elfking stopped. A flourish of tapered fingers and hair the colour of the whitest gold spilled past delicately pointed ears to hang at the sides of Thranduil's face as he bowed. 

Looking at Bilbo through his lashes he spoke, “The halls of Erebor have become a dreary place master Baggins, king under the mountain.” Thranduil straightened gracefully, his hands coming to rest behind his back, a smile curling his mouth up at the corners – it failed to reach his eyes. “A vast improvement to my last visit, all gold and jewels. Teasing.” 

He seemed to regard Bilbo for several seconds before continuing: “But you have no desire for the treasure, nor the stone you so plainly hold in your lap.” His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“That is of no concern to you,” Bilbo said. “I did not call you here to discuss my interests in the treasure or there lack of.”

The elfking nodded curtly and let the hobbit explain.

“The dragon Smaug and I have taken Erebor, Thorin Oakenshield has been beheaded and his nephews held prisoner. I merely wish to align our forces together for the... greater good of Middle Earth.” Bilbo paused to let what he had said sink in. “And what I offer in return is the prize of all prizes, the Arkenstone for your agreement in the matter, if that is not satisfactory the last of the line of Durin for your pleasure and the chest of diamonds you were robbed of decades ago.”

Thranduil stood frozen, his chin high as he considered the offer. Minutes passed before he bowed his head and said, “I accept.”

Bilbo held out the stone, amused how it possessed the elfking so as long fingers plucked it from his palms, eyes so blue they neared grey studying it in its entirety. The three remaining gifts were delivered moments later, the chest opened before being handed off to two of Thranduil's guard. And Thorin's nephews, hobbled, gagged and thrown to the elfking's feet. 

Bilbo watched in surprise when Thranduil handed the Arkenstone away in favour of crouching to inspect the young dwarves, his fingers were gentle in their hair and commanding when he gripped Fili's chin and raised his face. The ring hissed, disgust drowning out all other emotion as Bilbo watched the elf press a kiss to the corner of Fili's stretched mouth. 

And then Thranduil was standing once more, the stone in his hand as he lead his party away, Fili and Kili carried under the arms of an elf who bore curious resemblance to the king himself. 

When the backs of the elves finally disappeared Bilbo stood and beckoned Bofur to follow him. Although disgusted at first the ring had grown content with Thranduil's little display and Bilbo thought of it as he walked through halls of toiling dwarves to his chambers. Something cracked within his head when they reached the kings apartments and when they entered he thought only of Thranduil's long sticky looking fingers molesting the two juvenile dwarves as Bofur haphazardly pinned him to the too-large four posted bed at his command (even if the dwarf didn't need any command to fuck).

The ring fed off the thought and fell to the floor along with Bilbo's clothing, forgotten in the storm that was his desire.


	3. Chapter 3

Bofur's touch was gentle, unless the hobbit beneath him demanded otherwise. Today he didn't, each slide of skin upon skin tearing needy moans from Bilbo, the dwarf hungrily drank them down. He kissed a path down Bilbo's chest, large fingers coming to toy with the hobbits nipples – and if Bilbo hadn't been hard before he was now, lust pooling in the pit of his stomach, transforming into want as Bofur's pinching and kissing translated to pleasure. 

He ached, laying hard and dripping in the sandy blonde thatch at the base of his sex. His thighs trembled when lips kissed his length, squirmed and kneaded the thick blankets beneath him as moist heat enveloped him. Once, many days ago it seemed, Thorin had done this. In the dim light of the midnight moon through wispy clouds and surrounded by the fresh scent of hay Bilbo had found himself seduced by the late king. 

Bilbo had convinced himself he had been seduced, had said he liked Thorin's hands on him, tongue swiping away precome, fingers pressing where they had no business being. And maybe he had, in hindsight, enjoyed the domination, a thick palm over his mouth as Thorin wrestled his trousers down... and then again maybe he hadn't.  
When the morn came the rank smell of farm animals covered the crime – Bilbo's skin had crawled with unease for Beorn had stared at him with big brown eyes the colour of oak, and he knew.

Bofur's touch was unlike that night, gentle in their proceedings, thoroughly slicked with oil before finding sanctuary within the hobbit. It didn't matter how many times Bilbo had him kneel at the thrones side, or how much blood spilled in the room of the kings, the stone stained with it. It didn't matter for Bofur would always be the gentle, attentive thing he... the words slipped from Bilbo's mind. 

_Fell in love with._

Went unspoken as the dwarf took position between his legs. 

“May I?” Came the question. It seemed so innocent to ask permission, sparked something within Bilbo, a dark twisting ill feeling that maybe Bofur only asked because he too knew what he thought only Beorn was privy to. 

He snarled, in that moment hating Bofur for asking, hating Thorin – but hating the dead was useless. He reached up, grasping the dwarfs hair with a rage unlike his own. Bilbo tugged, yanking Bofur down till they were face to face. “Do not ask,” he hissed dangerously, “just take.”

And then he pushed Bofur away, releasing the soft length of hair from his clenched fist. 

Something died within Bofur at his words and when the dwarf pressed within him Bilbo felt him half wilted, his eyes containing a sadness the hobbit despised. They moved awkwardly for a few thrusts, out of sync with each other for the first time since their little charade had began. 

“You disappoint me,” Bilbo murmured, stroking himself. “An oath to serve me and you can't even fuck me properly.”

“I don't wish to fuck you,” Bofur replied, honesty ringing true within his voice. He bowed his head, hair falling like a curtain around their faces. Rough lips found Bilbo's mouth and somewhere below he felt what he wanted, felt life spring into Bofur. Maybe hope. And then the dwarf breathed: “Let me love you and I may yet satisfy you.”

His words washed over Bilbo, sincere in their entirety. For a moment rage battled with something else, something unknown and then Bilbo was crying, tears sliding from the corners of his eyes in fat droplets. All the anger from before simply vanished, swept away by a river of emotion – and the ring held no power over him suddenly. 

“Bofur,” he uttered, burying his fingers in the dwarfs hair, staring up into warm eyes as he came back to himself. His words failed him, and when Bofur eased deep inside him for a second time all he could do was sob and cling to the one thing that kept him grounded. 

It was hurried, a messy affair of tears and sobbing moans that lifted high into the room along with the sounds of their bodies joining. Bofur came with a groan, his mouth fixed on Bilbo's earlobe as he rode out the wave of his orgasm. 

When it passed the dwarf slid out flaccid, a string of seed connecting them briefly before he knelt between Bilbo's legs.

He took Bilbo's still straining length into his mouth, lapping at him until the hobbit exploded in a broken cry and seed coated his tongue and throat. These moments were precious, fleeting. Bofur swallowed before crawling beside the other, drawing Bilbo to him with an arm curled around the hobbits waist. 

“Why do you linger?” Bilbo asked, voice tired. He touched Bofur's cheek, merely feeling as his fingers moved to the side to tuck a few long strands of dark hair behind the dwarfs ear. “Why not take this chance to run?”

“Where would I run to,” Bofur breathed, “were I to run I'd be running without the one thing I need.”

“And what is that?” Bilbo sighed and Bofur saw the change more than he felt it. His Bilbo was fading, control slipping away with his consciousness. 

“My heart, Bilbo,” he said, pressing firm yet gentle fingers to the base of Bilbo's skull. “I could not leave you, not today, not a fortnight from now. I linger for I will not lose what is most precious to me.”

“Fool,” Bilbo sneered suddenly, the edge to his voice, even when drowsy, was merely a confirmation of what Bofur knew. Still, he did not release the hobbit despite the change. 

“Perhaps,” he murmured thoughtfully. Perhaps he was a fool for holding onto the dregs of what once was. He gave it little thought these days, and even less now as he followed the hobbit into oblivion, the ring was poison, he knew, but it possessed a power far greater than his. 

Devotion alone would not return Bilbo to him. All he could do was wait for the moments where the hobbit was lucid, himself. A fool maybe but those moments were to live for and he would continue living for them until he found a way to free Bilbo of the rings influence. 

Sleep came and with it a warm bliss, a welcome respite from the reality of it all.


	4. Chapter 4

Morning brought the bittersweet aftermath of Bilbo sitting heavy on Bofur's tongue, their conversation at the forefront of his mind. They bathed in relative silence, and it was as it always was after the hobbit's episodes of lucidity. 

Bilbo made no sound, barely appearing to breathe as Bofur washed him with too-caring hands, uncoiling the tangles in his curly hair and rinsing the suds from his naked flesh. The hobbit's silence was a wound, lost in limbo as the ring rushed to repair the damage caused, the fissures that tore open the cage his Bilbo resided in. 

The hobbit lasted no longer than an hour in this numb state, more than enough time for Bofur to saddle a pony, pocket the ring and flee the caverns of Erebor in an attempt to destroy it. But it was a fool who thought such things, the ring would consume him and if it didn't Smaug would surely hunt him down – the ring was said to be indestructible, only myths and legends whispered in languages Bofur did not know hinted at a final end in the liquid fire of Mount Doom. 

Mordor. 

The thought of stepping on it's cursed lands sent a shiver down his spine, the room felt chilled suddenly despite the scalding heat of the spring they sat in. 

“Enough,” Bilbo spoke in the stillness, voice a quiver. He sounded weak. Bofur pushed it from his mind, he couldn't afford to bring it to the others attention. 

The hobbit shifted, standing, and like a fawn recently birthed in the warm wind of spring he stood, legs trembling as though atrophied. Bofur offered no hand, stayed well away as Bilbo sauntered up the stairs, teeth gritted, sweat and water dripping onto the stone.

“Appointments,” Bilbo said and when Bofur didn't answer he snapped, irritated: “Are there any appointments today?”

“None,” Bofur replied when he reached the hobbit's side. “The next is still a fortnight away. Dain Ironfoot of the Iron Hills.” 

Bilbo snorted, leaned into the bath robe Bofur draped over his shoulders. “Dain Ironfoot. Second cousin to Thorin, vile and accursed,” he laughed, a sharp sound that seemed to rattle his ribs. “What does he want I wonder, perhaps to confirm what he already knows. Pitiful.”

There was pause before the hobbit began to walk, his feet leaving a wet trail back to his chambers. Bofur followed, eyes downcast. 

“I suppose it is custom to throw a banquet for such,” Bilbo paused, a smirk in his voice when he continued, “nobility." Having reached his chambers, Bilbo let the robe slip from his shoulders to the floor, pooling around his feet. He turned to Bofur. 

“A feast needs guests, does it not? Surely I have one or two who would attend such an event.” 

There was no command but Bofur didn't need one. Mentally he catalogued those who would attend. Thranduil lingered at the forefront of his mind, the elfking a promising prospect who would bring not only his royal bearing but also mayhap the gifts Bilbo had given him before. 

That would send a clear message. 

Any other options were limited, though Bofur could think of one in particular. 

Bard of Lake Town, whom once lived under the corruption of the Master, now risen to Kinghood in Dale, rebuilt. 

The rest would be those who presently lived in Erebor, those who had no choice but to attend. Food and drink would be plentiful, a welcome respite from rebuilding the crumbled halls that Smaug had destroyed. Bofur, however, was uncertain of Bilbo's intentions.

Dain was a well respected figure, he doubted the Dwarves would take kindly to him following in Thorin's decided path. Though there could be no resistance with the ring and Smaug at Bilbo's command. Come what may, Bofur would set out the entire event. 

“Should I take council with Balin and Gloin?” Bofur asked tentatively. 

Bilbo seemed to think on this as he pulled a black buttoned shirt on. 

“Yes, it has to be grand, spare no expense. Durin's gold is plenty and with such esteemed guests,” Bilbo spat, a cruel smirk on his face. “One wouldn't want to disappoint.”


End file.
